The House Call
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: For the prompt: Watson is hurt and needs Holmes to try and take care of him. Slight slash.


He's found him.

Four frantic days of searching have yielded results. Four hellish days of storming through London like a snarling whirlwind with Lestrade and Clarkie on his heels, terrified when he turned around to see if they'd stepped on something vital, something he might have missed in his panic.

He's kneeling in an abandoned warehouse in Soho over Watson's still, bound form. The doctor's barely conscious, lying atop shards of broken glass, curled beneath a window that had been shattered years before. Cold air and drizzle pours in over him, clad as he is in only his shirt and trousers. One shoe is lost as well, perhaps in the violent struggle Holmes knows he's put up.

With shaking hands Holmes works the gag off of Watson's mouth and is rewarded with a hoarse murmur. The ropes are harder to deal with, wound around his wrists and elbows with a vicious hand. Thank God for Clarkie and his handy penknife which saws through them with relative efficiency.

They both help to sit him up, worried when he flops forward, boneless and shivering, his lips gray with cold. His teeth start to chatter and Holmes thinks this is a good sign, even if he has no idea which hospital might be the best one to bring him to.

"St. John's is a good, clean place, sir," Clarkie supplies helpfully. "Briggs will be here in a moment. He's a hearty fellow, twice the size of our doctor here. He'll carry him straight out."

"Perfect," Holmes breathes, slipping out of his overcoat and winding it around Watson before tugging him close. "You'll be in hospital in no time, Watson."

"N-n-no," Watson stammers. "Holm ..."

"Yes, my dear. Very soon."

"Home," Watson struggles to say in the most deliberate way possible. "I want home."

Clarkie's eyes widen, but wise man he is, he says nothing. "Don't be ridiculous, Watson," Holmes says. "There are no doctors at home."

But Watson's freezing fingers are curling in Holmes' lapel, his nose pressed against his throat and he's shaking with what sound like tears. "Please. I beg you, Holmes. Baker Street. If you love me ..."

_Dirty pool, Watson,_ Holmes thinks sadly but he can't find it in himself to deny Watson anything at the moment. Perhaps he'll pass out again at home and he can bring him to St. John's from there, Holmes decides, knowing already that it's a silly thought. "As you wish," he whispers, even as the broken glass he's kneeling on starts to cut into his trousers. He can't imagine what sorts of injuries Watson's sustained and how he'll even begin to treat them, but his thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of Officer Briggs who is just as big and strong as Clarkie claims.

"Baker Street," he sighs, as Briggs picks up Watson easily and walks out the door with him to the waiting carriage outside.

Clarkie pats his arm in a sympathetic gesture. "He's as stubborn as you, sir."

Holmes grunts something that's meant to be dismissive but Clarkie only smiles in response.

It's a long slog to Baker Street through the gray rain. Holmes holds onto Watson who makes slight pained sounds with each bump of the wheels over a crack in the cobblestones. Clarkie sits across from them, leaning forward, his hand outstretched to catch Watson if he tumbles out of Holmes' constrictor-like embrace, as unlikely as that is.

Upon arrival, Briggs is kind enough to carry Watson upstairs and places him on the settee with the care of a truly gentle giant. Holmes shakes his huge hand and laughs weakly as his own is swallowed whole in the man's grip. "Remind me to tell Lestrade to put you on duty in our area from now on," he jests as the officer tips his hat to him and leaves.

Clarkie discreetly waits until Briggs is gone before fixing Holmes with a questioning look. "Are you sure you're up for this, sir?"

"Of course not," Holmes replies, tossing his hat aside. "But we'll see what's what before we let the panic set in." He exhales noisily as he examines poor Watson who is miserable-looking, his clothes and exposed skin filthy, spotted with red. "All right, Clarkie. I thank you, but the doctor is a shy chap in his own way. I'll take it from here."

Clarkie looks doubtful, but nods anyway. "I'll be doing rounds on this block for the next few hours, sir. Just have Mrs. Hudson whistle if needed."

"Right," Holmes replies vaguely, already wondering how he's going to manage treating a full-grown man with injuries that could range from minor to life-threatening, not that he'd know it. He rolls up the sleeves of his own shirt and kneels by the settee, pinching Watson's reddened wrist, searching for a pulse.

He feels ... nothing. "Afraid you're dead, old boy," he sighs as Watson peeks up at him from beneath hooded eyes.

"The other side," Watson murmurs, sliding Holmes' fingers over to where the radial artery beats. "I think that's not the problem. If you could get a wash basin ..."

"Right," Holmes says, rising up and searching vainly for a bowl. He finds one, something shallow they use for storing various nuts and bolts and loose screws that occasionally litter the floor. He dumps them out without preamble and goes to the sink to fill it. He can't find any linens, but there are some dry socks hanging over the tub, which Holmes snatches in his other hand.

The water splashes as he rushes back to Watson and Holmes curses with every step. But he dutifully slips his hand into a sock and dips it, pressing the cool water down against the abused skin of Watson's wrists. That doesn't seem to be doing anything useful and Holmes curses again before pulling the sock off his hand and levering Watson into a sitting position with some difficulty.

Watson groans pitifully, but Holmes ignores him and removes his shirt, gasping at the bruises and cuts revealed. "My dear ..." he breathes, horrified. He sets Watson back gently and backs away to grab the medical bag that Watson always keeps beneath his desk. "Don't move," he cautions, hurrying back.

"Can't move," Watson whispers. He winces as the smell of carbolic acid fills the sitting room. "Easy with that."

"Easy with ... ouch! Right, it stings. I'm sorry, dear Watson, but ..."

"You're doing fine. Put some in the water and do it that way."

"Right. Water, got it." Holmes manages to pour some of the foaming acid into the bowl and with the sock thus treated, presses the antiseptic to Watson's many cuts. Sitting up beside him, he goes slowly, carefully, plucking away tiny bits of embedded glass as he goes.

Holmes can't help but grimace in anger with every pass over Watson's injuries. It's a testament to his patience, he thinks, that he's not out there now beating his kidnappers to death at that very moment.

He has no idea how to bandage Watson's back, but Watson encourages him to get a clean cotton nightshirt and it will protect the small, mostly closed cuts well enough. Once that's done, the pants have to come off and that's easier said than done. There's some tugging, some pushing and pulling and finally the trousers slide off, revealing a huge bruise on Watson's bad leg.

"They knew where to hit me," Watson explains softly at the horrified look on Holmes' face. "I went down like a lead weight."

Shaking with anger, Holmes rises up and pulls at his hair, unwilling to trust his voice. He paces a few times and finally settles down again at Watson's feet. He searches through the medical bag for the sharp-smelling salve he knows well enough from his treatments after a bout in the ring.

Watson smiles encouragingly at him. "See? You'll be a doctor yet." He closes his eyes and leans back, silent as Holmes gingerly dabs the salve over the bruise, rubbing it in with great care until it's gone. He notices the muscles twitching beneath his touch and a press of his fingertips confirms it - Watson's still cold, freezing in fact.

Holmes sits back on his haunches and gathers his strength. "Up we go, into bed. I'll bandage your wrists in there."

Watson nods tiredly, no longer having the energy to argue. Holmes wishes he could magically turn into Officer Briggs as he half-carries, half-drags Watson into his room and deposits him on the bed as gently as possible. He runs back for the bag and forces himself to calm as he deals with the abrasions on Watson's wrists.

The animals bound him brutally and Holmes is suddenly assaulted with thoughts of Watson being hurt and helpless, certainly frightened, terrified even and ...

Watson's free hand reaches up and touches Holmes cheek. "I knew you were coming," he says simply. "I never had the slightest doubt."

Holmes closes his eyes against the caress. "You have more faith in me than I do."

Watson chuckles weakly and the room is silent as Holmes finishes. He squeezes the doctor's fingers one final time, annoyed to discover they are still cold even in a room with a fire and a bed practically heaped with blankets.

With an annoyed sound, Holmes takes off his shoes and slips into the bed next to Watson, spooning around his back, tucking his knees behind Watson's own. He's relieved when Watson settles easily into the position, clutching Holmes' hand to his heart. "Sleep," Holmes orders gently and Watson obeys, falling off easily, as he usually does.

But Holmes doesn't sleep. His body and his brain have many, many plans to make, many oaths to keep.

0o0o

Holmes leaves a still-sleeping Watson in Clarkie's care, shrugging when the officer nervously asks where he's headed.

He now knows full-well who took Watson, why they took him and he hopes they haven't yet twigged onto the fact that he's on their path like a bloodhound chasing a missing fox. He has his bully stick with him, tucked innocuously beneath his arm and he smiles charmingly as he enters the pub, strolling past the barmaids with a devilish grin.

Sliding up to the bar, he orders a gin and pretends to gulp at it. He looks comical by design, a gentleman souse and the criminals start to circle like a pack of wolves, seeing a few easy guineas to roll. Holmes' quick eye picks out his prey and he waits until they are face-to-face, their leering grins looking down at him with the intent to make him pay.

That is until he cold cocks the first one, kicks the second in the most ungentlemanly place possible and breaks the jaw of the third. The rest of the bar backs away as he beats Watson's kidnappers into a mangled, yowling pulp, making sure to send the ringleader over the bar and into the mirror.

_That's for the glass in Watson's back_, he thinks viciously as the mirror shatters. _Not to mention seven years bad luck._

He doesn't stop beating them even when Lestrade comes roaring in, Officer Briggs in tow. The giant picks up Holmes as easily as a doll and carries him outside, while still kicking and swinging his stick.

"You idiot!" Lestrade chides loudly once things have settled, but Holmes sees he's amused rather than otherwise. The inspector leans in close. "Is that them?"

"Yes," Holmes grumbles, even as Briggs kindly brushes bits of mirror off his coat. "Pray give me another shot before you take them away."

"You've 'ad enough fun for one night. Now go back to your doctor, he's awake and none too pleased to find Clarkie there and you 'out'," Lestrade orders, as the kidnappers are dragged away in to the wagon, looking grateful for the rescue. "It's him who sent us."

"Watson's deluded, poor thing," Holmes sniffs, but he obeys, walking to Baker Street through the chill, the rage in his heart calmed at last. He climbs the seventeen stairs up to the sitting room two at a time, calling out. "Darling, I'm home!"

Clarkie rises quickly and fairly runs out past him, taking a quick second to tip his hat in departure. Holmes wonders about that until he sees Watson's furious scowl, made all the more impressive by the fact that he's somehow dressed himself and looks about ready to chase Holmes down, no matter what the cost.

"Don't you 'darling' me," Watson growls. "What have you done?"

"Taken care of some minor business," Holmes says with a careless flourish. "My, you've recovered quickly. I do believe my doctoring skills have risen to the point where I may be able to treat myself from now on."

It's then he notices that the medical bag is out, the bandages around Watson's wrists have been re-done and there are clean flannels drying over a proper basin sitting on his desk. Watson continues to stare narrowly at him until he shrugs boyishly, a gesture that always seems to soften Watson's heart, this time being no exception.

"I truly wish you wouldn't take on these fellows by yourself," Watson says later, once they are curled up together again beneath the blankets. "You worry me too much when you're angry."

"How about we make a vow not to worry each other at all for at least a fortnight, hmm?" Holmes offers, rolling onto his stomach and slinging an arm over Watson's chest. "We can spend the rest of the month in bed."

"Doing what?" Watson huffs, laughter lurking.

"Dreaming, talking ... things," Holmes says suggestively, even though they rarely do those sorts of 'things'. Usually after one of them is hurt, a sort of renewal of life ritual, but when better to do that than after ...

"I like things," Watson replies, turning his head to kiss Holmes' nose. "My dear Doctor Holmes."

0o0o

end

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